The Mount Doom Tales
by Tepthida Hay
Summary: A merry company goes in pilgrimage to the shrine of Mount Doom, where Frodo destroyed the One Ring. Each one must tell a story. Frame of The Canterbury Tales, with LOTR characters. Humor. RAR, pleaaaaase.
1. A very General Prologue

_Disclaimer : the general structure is Geoffrey Chaucer's property, the characters and places are J.R.R. Tolkien's. I do not intend any harm in writing this fanfiction, my purpose is to express the admiration I have for this long piece of writing that are The Canterbury Tales, as for the extraordinary richness of The Lord of the Rings's world. Please R&R. English is not my native language. I hope you'll enjoy !_

**A very General Prologue**

When that April month in Bree came I

A monstrous pelting rain did I defy,

Until I put myself dry in a tavern

There I thought myself in a cavern

For people and stench reminded me of so.

But light, music and drink was there also,

And a good many stinky asleep travellers.

Then the innkeeper he came with whiskers

And on his puzzled head a nubuckskin cap,

A daisy-white apron fringed with blue fur on his lap.

Red was his complexion and shiny his eyes,

His hair grey and dishevelled bore he long in size.

Like a too swelled goatskin bottle was his belly,

His cheeks smiling and bloating like jelly.

The Inn of the Prancing Unicorn he owned,

Where trolls, dwarves, men and elves in mead drowned.

The name of that good fellow was Tom Bombadil,

Who over all loved running among daffodil'.

"Goodday my lord!" he welcomed me.

"To my best dishes let me introduce thee."

As he spoke so entered a noisy crowd,

Soaked to the skin yet they were proud.

"I am your true guest", said the surprised Host.

"Pray follow me, and forget about this frost.

And you, dear stranger, please come too,

Or the cold you came with will make you blue."

And so the guest led them to a cosy room,

Where from the beams hung bald bats in bloom.

Now let me tell you about that merry company :

Because for sure they were gay and happy.

Sixteen fellows were there within it,

Men, elves, wizards, dwarf, hobbit, random hobbit.

Together they formed a melting pot,

That never in Middle Earth did anyone knot.

For fear and hunger pushed them to gather,

So that orcs and flying slugs they might fight together.

The whole of them in pilgrimage did they go,

In the shrine of the Mount Doom where Frodo,

The most famous hobbit ever living,

Once destroyed in Mordor the One Ring.

Great was his deed, painful his journey,

However he did succeed in leaving his chutney,

And walked across enchanted fields or barren land,

Accompanied by a merry joyful glad band,

In order to fulfil his destiny of saviour of the world,

But his patience and courage many times whirled.

Selfish he was not, so despite many torments

Did he reach his goal and after many attempts,

He came inside the dark, dark, dark land

Of the dark, dark, dark lord Sauron and,

After a tremendous struggle with his selves,

Did he throw the golden ring as would elves

Of a rotten drop of dew fallen in a sacred web.

In the deep, deep, deep depths of lava did it fall

And of Sauron, nasty orcs and Evil was it all.

Now let me describe the members of that fellowship,

Who from everywhere came, by foot, horse, or ship.

The most venerable was of mystical stuff made,

For he wore long grey robes all in shade.

An old pointed plumed hat on his thick grey hair,

A long thick grey beard with locks fair,

A long gnarled wooden staff with a fake dragon egg,

Refined he looked, serenity was all he could beg.

Things did he never do on a half,

Widespread was his fame, and his name was Gandalf.

A man was by his side, proud and ill-shaved,

On his face could be read "many lives have I saved".

His clothes of leather dark and muddy,

A great traveller was he probably.

Some called him Strider, Ranger but his name was Aragorn,

Between women and a burden of noble birth was he torn.

A noisy and interesting band of hobbits there was,

Composed of four merry curly-haired lads.

Big feet, small height, rosy cheeks, cherished belly,

They all looked as if they had drunk a keg of brandy.

The one called Merry was, well, merry.

A smile stuck on his face, always happy.

His fellow and cousin was Pippin,

Whose love of sprouts was a sin.

Then there was the brave and loyal Sam,

Who was as worry as an old ram.

Frodo was their secretive and tormented friend,

To whom a dangerous quest the elves did lend.

A tall, pointed-eared, fair-haired elf stood near them,

For him was a foggy dew the greatest gem,

In boots and cloak across the woods he went,

Silent as the arrows of his bow that he bent.

His elvish name was but Legolas Greenleaf,

And in sunbeams or streams was his belief.

A beautiful elf lady stood by him,

Her face pale as a shining star's rim,

Her hair smooth as silk and dark as night.

For her beauty mortal men showed their might,

But her heart and thoughts belonged to Aragorn,

Arwen was she, and with moonlight herself did she adorn.

Her grandmother was with her, fresh as the breeze,

In Lothlorien did she dwell, her eyes as stars did freeze,

Her long flowing hair were golden,

And she was bright and attracting as a maiden.

The one whom some called sorceress,

Was Galadriel and a great enchantress.

The shy and young lady Eowyn,

Who Aragorn's tormented heart began to win,

Sat at a preventive distance from Arwen,

For it is better to stay away from the lion's den.

Twice shorter and thrice hairier, was Gimli,

The dwarf who underground led a quarry.

Plaited was his beard, whetted was his axe,

Whatever the prey, he followed the tracks.

His voice like thunder, his feet like stone,

And a delicate helmet which in the sun shone.

The tall fair-haired man that stood by the fire,

His face all melancholy, who would any maid inspire,

Was known by the sweet name of Boromir.

He was as worthy in battle as the wise Mithrandir,

However a worm had his heart corrupted,

Of glory for his people did he dreamed,

But in his hope he had but lost

The sense of friendship that it cost.

Another merry hobbit was there,

A pint of beer did he share,

With his pink hairless chin.

He hummed to the sound of a violin,

Happy as a lark, rejoiced in food and friends,

For that Bilbo the feast had no ends.

An old wizard, as white as a frozen daisy,

Stayed in the background of this crowd noisy.

He had better away from that silly company ran,

But a stubborn pride and bitter rivalry held that Saruman.

Even more uncomfortable among that gaiety,

Was a strange-looking man, all sleepy,

Behind a greasy curtain of black hair,

And a look borrowed from a brigands' lair.

Grima Wormtongue was that sinister creature,

With a depressed raven had he a feature.

The last of the company was not in the surrounds,

He had a tendency to make gurgling sounds,

And had been pushed outside to the hosts' relief,

Unfortunately he came back with a sauced beef,

Jumping and advocating people to taste it,

But all he got was a choir of "damn it".

Hobbit had he once been, gluey was he now,

Gollum was his name, and firmly did he vow,

Fresh salmons or springing hare to catch,

But always would his two conflicting selves dispatch.

Now, oyez oyez, thou dauntless readers,

Tom Bombadil won't go to the greengrocer's,

Oh, excuse me for those nonsense rhymes,

I must have wandered sometimes.

So, the Host, to that merry company he proposed :

That each pilgrim should tell a tale and be exposed,

To the appreciation of his fellows,

The best would win a bunch of fried swallows,

The others would go away with six-foot long faces,

But the tavern or the shrine would not be the places,

For them to complain about such rules,

Because their own minds would be their tools.

Now, it is high time with the tales to begin,

Who would first speak in that crowded inn ?


	2. The Tale of the Ringbearer

_Disclaimer : the characters and places are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. References to the Sharpe series ; ) Please, RAR !_

**The Tale of the Ring-bearer**

"Well, well, well, lads", the Host said.

"Who shall begin the contest, lad or maid?"

The tormented hobbit called Frodo stood up :

"I shall open the contest, so shut up!

For I'm the one who walked into Mordor..."

"One does not simply walk into Mordor!"

Boromir interrupted, his fist raised in conviction.

"Evil never sleeps in those lands, affliction..."

"You sharp tongue, go find an enemy, a sword, gold,

or tame an eagle, win a victory, a battle and be bold!"

The Host said with passion. "But don't stop the half-ling."

"Yes!" echoed Frodo Baggins, "I was the lord of the One Ring!

So listen to me carefully, for I am the only hero here!

If you want to hear me talking, don't spoil my atmosphere.

I am the famous saviour of Middle Earth, yes I am!

Over the hills of the Shire and far away with Sam,

Did I stroll around Rivendell, Lothlorien, and o'er!

Galadriel refused to take my preciousssss, but never!

No, never will I ask some poor pea-brained princess

To accept such a great treasure as was my preciousss!"

Frodo suddenly turned red and glared at the fellowship,

He burst into angry tears when Gollum he spotted :

"That gurgling thing stole my ring!" he shouted.

"That nasty Gollum even stole my finger!

Look, I was repressed by that creature!

Oh that's not fair, that's not fair at all!" he whined.

"Oh, just stop it, you childish boy!" Sam snapped,

calling the entire merry company to witness.

"You may think it's none of your business,

Gentle folk, but it's untrue. Frodo is a burden!

Oh, yes, he destroyed the One Ring, annihilated Sauron,

Re-established a so-called peace between the races...

And then? Does Middle Earth of his sacrifice bear traces?

No! Dwarves still hate elves, and men still envy us!

What did you think? That we would be all happy together?

During all his so-called quest and under any weather,

That stubborn so-called martyr hobbit walked, cried, moaned.

And who, who among his folk, who had his holidays postponed?

I'll tell you, gentle company : me! Samwise Gamgee...the Brave!

I had, for months, to reassure the lad about his expected fame!"

The hobbit paused, breathless. Frodo was purple with shame,

And tried to disappear through the tiled floor, in vain.

"Now lads, you can hear his tale and spoil your brain...

For he will talk about HIS quest and HIS terrible hardships.

He will tell of HIS difficult internal conflict and of HIS..."

"Stop it, you traitor!" replied Frodo, a hard look on his face.

"Let's listen to my tale, gentle folk, please take place."

The slightly red-complexioned hobbit climbed on the table,

So that the first story of the contest to read he might be able.

"Once upon a time, there was a peaceful and kind hobbit,

who lived in a hole in the peaceful and green Shire and loved it.

But one day, he was disturbed by the arrival of a wizard,

Who could do nothing more than change a bee into a lizard.

That wizard, Grand-half was his name, silly his faaaaaargh!"

Frodo stopped his story, shocked. A tentacle and aaaaaargh...

A long green and pink lock of straight hair grew upon his head.

"What did you do to me you fake wizard?" Frodo said.

"You should have better disguised my name, lad!

Grand-half and Gandalf are too close to be a coincidence!"

The wizard retorted fiercely. "On your life it'll have an incidence,

If you do not correct the rubbish you have just said!"

"Oh-no-please-don't-turn-me-into-a-hairy-squid!"

Frodo squeaked, with his eyes bulging.

"Well, you lucky one, for a while keep beseeching"

The proud wizard said, smiling slightly.

"Alright, tentacle and lock, go away" he spoke lightly.

Frodo, on the verge of tears, stroked his hair.

He shrieked :"I cannot go on with my tale, I am in despair!"

With a sudden burst of rebellion, he put a hand on his chest,

And around a chain, took a ring of gold imitation the best.

With a powerful voice he cried :"Don't tease me!

Or I will have you all submitted to my power, thee..."

"Enough, Frodo!" thundered Gandalf, grasping his fake ring.

"Move away or I will have you turn into a cake icing!"

Frightened to death, the famous hobbit left the company.

The Host claimed : "Next one, I want a tale happy!"


	3. The Tale of the Dewcollector

_Disclaimer : copyrighted J.R.R. Tolkien. Thanks to Amélie and CKlovesme2040 ( guess whose tale it is ? ; ) and Gaius Valerius Catullusfor their reviews, I am happy there are at least two readers of my tales ! I will go on with the stories of the company, but please RAR ! ; ) It is just for fun, so you can try ! Hope you'll enjoy !_

**The Tale of the Dew-collector**

The merry company suddenly went silent:

The entire gathering was as still as an Ent.

Would Gandalf transform the next candidate?

Or would he treat him as an old mate?

The Host yawned loudly, a blond elf stood up.

"May I, Legolas, tell a gentle tale and raise a cup

To the glory of the sky, wind and rain?

Thou will not have a story told in vain.

Of hobbit, quest or ring thou will not hear,

For I will deal with a subject most sincere,

Which is the harmonious life of my people.

We, elves, who can be satisfied with an apple!

We, elves, sweet creatures who can rejoice..."

The Host groaned: "Are you warming your voice?

I said I wanted a merry tale and not a story soft!"

Legolas cast a hard look at his guest and coughed.

"I will deal with my folk, nature and pleasure.

Hear me, and you will be transported for sure."

The elf paused theatrically and combed his hair

With his long and pale fingers. He breathed the air:

"We are the children of the sun and moon,

Whatever the time, dusk, dawn or noon;

We walk through the forest, swift as our arrows,

The dead golden leaves are our boredom's barrows;

Snow with its white coat to the fox shows our steps,

Buds and fresh nests bring joyful songs to our lips;

Sunbeams turn our sleepy blood into boiling sap.

The seasons we pass, in light we wrap,

Dew is our drink, stars are our jewels,

From which we draw our knowledge, as from wells.

Raindrops on a still lake is the sweetest sonata,

For us jars of barks, no need of terra cotta.

Fresh moss is our bed, spider web our clothes.

Our favourite moment is when the wind blows,

Having the trees rustle and the clear water shiver,

Carrying in its invisible breath the shy dust of silver,

And the young and vigorous pollens,

To secret clearings to put them on lichens..."

"Now, listen, Pointy-Ears!" the Host interrupted.

"Quicken your tale, or you'll have my anger erupted."

"Don't be so impatient, thou foul innkeeper!"

Legolas snarled, knitting his brows. "I'll go deeper

In my marvellous story when I decide,

So contradicting me would be suicide."

The elf's eyes were as threatening as burning coals.

"We, elves of the grey havens, have delicate souls,

What we enjoy most is to wander about the forest,

When we gather dew, trapped on the plants' chest.

However, we sometimes get terribly angry,

If we find on the plants a dirty mud hungry,

That has but spoilt our dear dawn dew so pure.

The orcs brought mud, now they will feel insecure!

Those silly nasty greasy muddy beasts,

Won't sleep peacefully anymore for we, artists

Of nature, will hunt them down everywhere,

Through woods, oceans, hills and dales or dragon's lair!

No peace for them, their sacrilege they will pay,

No escape for them, no need to run away!

Our arrows will your muscled and smelly chests shot,

For the non-respect of our sanctuary you forgot!

Your heads we will have them pointed..."

Legolas stopped speaking, disappointed.

"Where are you all, members of the company?"

The elf, surprised, looked around him. No one.

Himself stood on the large table, undone.

He realised that he had his precious bow in hand,

An arrow nocked, ready to shoot someone in the band,

Had the company not yet run away from his fit of anger.

"Oh" he said "I did not mean to put you in danger.

Pray pardon me, gentle folk, I was a bit too...brisk.

But now you can come back, there is no longer risk."

Quite mortified, the elf waited. But none came.

"Well, whether you're here or not is just the same.

I will go for a walk in the surroundings,

Tis better than mourning for silly golden rings!"

Then he jumped from the table to the open window,

And light as a cat disappeared in the deep shadow.


	4. The Tale of the Salacious Sacred Stone

_Disclaimer : all the characters and places are the entire property of J.R.R. Tolkien. I confess having taken the Lia Fail from the Irish mythology. But the nonsense is mine! Thanks to CKlovesme2040 ( I'm glad you enjoyed the tale of Legolas! ) and Amélie ( hé toi, t'as pas fini avec tes menaces à la noix ? Quand on s'appelle Nubuckskin on se tient à carreaux ! Et en plus je te signale que Beowulf c'est un gentil, alors tagoulafandelost ! mdr :D ). RAR pleaaaaaaaaaase pleaaaaaaaaaase pleaaaaaaaaaase! ( keep RARing ! lol )_

**The Tale of the Salacious Sacred Stone**

The whole company waited a long time,

Until they could hear the Host's chime,

Which meant that the fiery elf was gone,

And ran through the trembling woods alone.

All the fellowship was sweating like a pig,

And many members had still a fear big.

Gandalf said: "Cheer up! The threat is away,

Now you can display your stories' array."

A young woman, fair-haired and queenly bearing,

Took a step onwards: "Let me begin,

I am Eowyn of the Rohirrim, proud,

Noble-hearted, strong-minded and I love aloud,

The king of the Gondor, Aragorn son of Arathorn."

A fierce growl made her start as if stung by a thorn.

The elf princess Arwen had jumped on his feet,

A hateful light in her look, her face all heat.

But Eowyn insolently turned her back to her:

"The man is well-built, loves women not blur,

That's why he prefers me rather than some elvish girl,

Who, apart from making a gem from a dew pearl,

Is nothing but a poor thing unable to fight,

As women of my rank do. Instead, in light

She plays and with fellow elves she wanders

Across green lawns, greeting strangers

Or polishing her long and fragile nails..."

Arwen stood up again, had she scales,

One might have mistaken her with a dragon.

"You blond witch! Will you stop your jargon?"

The princess elf exclaimed, as red as lava.

"Go rambling on in a weak women's drama!"

"How dare you interrupt me, frivolous fairy!"

Lady Eowyn retorted. "It's not your turn, hairy,

Tiny, silly elf girl! Shut your nasty mouth,

Or I will have you taken away to the South!"

"Hum...hum...errrr...'scuse me m'am",

The greasy-haired Grima said, "I am

A good substitute to that fake king you think you love.

I have always loved you, but your heart is deceived like a dove,

That would find a cuckoo's egg in its nest,

For this Aragorn is a charlatan at his best..."

Like two Furies, Arwen and Eowyn pounced on Grima.

"But...but..." he stuttered, terrified "oooooooh maaaa"

The two women, united in adversity, knocked him down,

With so much energy that his flesh went brown.

Arwen had smacked his face with her pale hand,

But so brutally that her nails had torn his skin and,

The marks on Grima's cheek were savagely printed.

As for Eowyn, she had a punch on his chin adjusted.

The two rivals exchanged a mutual look of respect.

Arwen sat back and Eowyn went on with her subject:

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, hear the story of the Stone.

And for sure by a wind of surprise you will be blown."

The lady Eowyn paused, scrutinised her audience and said:

"Once upon a time, in a remote land by a lone king led,

There was a terrible event: King Boralas the Onliwone,

Who had ruled his kingdom from Stone Day on,

Died. His people was in deep sorrow and mourned.

For fear of attacks, to keep peace from being abandoned,

A brand new sovereign had to be elected quickly.

However, King Boralas had no child, for he had been sickly.

But one day, a powerful wizard, with thick red hair,

Came to the kingless land and claimed, as if in a fair:

"To choose the right sovereign, use the Sacred Stone".

He had said that in a slow and solemn tone.

"What is it?" asked the folk. "Is it an ancient spell?"

The wizard sighed, he looked sorry. "To you I will tell.

It is a stone which shouts when the right king

Is near its rock surface. Always did it the truth bring,

Was the chosen one a villain, burgher, beggar or prince.

From the dark ages to the bright ages, and ever since,

The Sacred Stone has never, never ever failed.

Use it, and Borolas's successor's name will be unveiled."

So orders were given to find the Sacred Stone.

The kingdom began dreaming about a possible throne

For each person, whatever the social rank.

But their enthusiasm quickly shrank.

Indeed, the Stone was nowhere to be found.

The wizard was about to be down,

When a minstrel discovered the treasure,

Overgrown with thick bushed and moisture.

Soon the folk had it cleaned up and brushed,

And the wizard looked at it and blushed.

"Is there a problem, master wizard?"

"Err, no...oh no, now let's see the award.

Please, all those who want to try, queue up.

One by one, you will walk over the stone and...yup,

We will know who the next king is!

Simple, isn't it? No need to worry...wiz!"

The peaceful folk seemed suspicious.

"Of your verbal twitches "yup!wiz!" are you conscious?"

The wizard bit his lips and remained silent.

"Are you alright? Will we begin before the crescent?"

The wizard gave a slight smile and said:

"Err, yes, err... all right then, walk! Walk, I said."

A young self-important lord dressed in silk and velvet

Pushed the ordered line of people and the stone met.

With a sigh, he stepped over it and smiled.

But the stone did not cry. Instead, it yawned.

Loudly. Impudently. Disinterestedly.

"Bad rock, a fissure I will give you deadly!"

Choked the offended nobleman, unsheathing his sword.

"I won't let a peasant become king, upon my word!"

And, with all his strength, he hit the culprit.

Bright sparks sprung from the stone,

But of the slightest fissure there was none.

The folk laughed heartily and the wizard cried:

"Go away, you blasphemous failed knight, you tried,

Offended the Sacred Stone and made a fool of yourself,

Now shove off before I call you an elf!"

There, Eowyn paused in her tale, confused, and blushed.

But Arwen did not take umbrage and was not flushed.

"So the candidates one by one they tried,

But either the Sacred Stone snored, coughed,

Sneezed or simply remained as still as a...rock.

"Is there no means its dumbness to unlock?",

A trader asked impatiently, "Is it the right stone?"

The wizard almost choked. "Err arr it is the One!"

"So why is there no king designated yet?"

The wizard's brow was covered with sweat,

But calmly he said: "Women did not do it."

A sudden wave of indignation raised a summit.

"You must let them try, they deserve a chance."

With joy, a young maid on the stone did dance.

"Hihihi hahaha huhuhuh ohohoh" the stone laughed.

"How delightful for my old body are those feet, how soft!

And what pretty young, long and firm legs I can see!

Am I in the Paradise of Weary Stones? Great!"

The wizard patently coughed and stamped on. "I bet

That young lady is the chosen sovereign for our kingdom?"

He said very loudly. "The Sacred Stone will, in its wisdom,

Tell us LOUDLY if I am right or wrong."

The stone stopped laughing and said in a voice strong:

"That attractive young lass is the new queen!

With such a beautiful body she can be serene!"

The wizard frowned and stamped on once more:

"Enough, Stone. Now gentle folk, cherish the queen or,

Pack your clothes, furniture and leave.

She will be surrounded by respect and in elation live."

Thus, the young girl was given a castle, throne and crown,

And ruled over the kingdom until her skin turned brown.

But what no one, except the wizard, never knew,

Is that the Sacred Stone used was not the true.

It was just a stone in which a salacious spirit was kept.

But it did not really matter, for the throne the lass did accept."

Eowyn looked around her. The audience stood aback.

Aragorn, faster than a weasel, came with a sack.

"Are you willing to steal my throne, lass?

Is your tale made to corrupt the assembled mass?"

He accusingly pointed a finger to her, then to the sack.

He growled: "Go inside or your love you will lack!"

Eowyn yelped with fear and grew pale.

Arwen intervened: "Can't you drink your ale,

Instead of persecuting that poor woman?

What are you? A king or a tyrannical man?"

Now the elvish princess seemed ready to tear his flesh,

Her eyes flashed, she could his poor mind thresh.

Aragorn receded, as a trapped crab would.

"Arwen, I was wicked, for sure I should

With all feeble creatures be nice,

But you see male chauvinism is my vice."

His beloved elf had grasped his throat.

"You had better take your coat,

And go back to my tree-house!

Otherwise I will be worse than a louse!"

Shocked, Aragorn left the room.

Arwen fumed: "Burn in the Mount Doom!"

Eowyn hiccuped with surprise, Arwen said:

"Don't let yourself be by such a man led.

If you are too nice with them,

They think they are powerful...ahem..."

Eowyn winked, then smiled happily:

"Well, I think I do not love him finally!"


	5. The Attempted Tale of the Crook Wizard

_Disclaimer : all the characters and places belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. Any reference to the Sharpe series would be totally voluntary! Thanks a lot for the few faithful readers, I am very pleased by your reviews! Hope you'll enjoy!_

**The Attempted Tale of the Crook Wizard**

"Errrr… » the Host said, avoiding Eowyn's way.

"Please stop chasing the guests away.

It is a mere tale contest, not a gathering of rioters."

Eowyn winced at the word. "Are there some gamblers,

Who would bet on our Host's life expectancy

In a duel? Or do you think the discrepancy

Between his bonhomie and my calibre

Too impressive? I do not want to lose my temper,

For fear of hurting our dear food furnisher!"

Eowyn had turned into a punisher.

Some members of the company grumbled,

But no one dared helping the humbled,

Deeply mortified Tom Bombadil, who whimpered.

But, all of a sudden, Saruman raised and simpered:

"May I tell my story now, great warrior lady?"

Eowyn threw out her chest, for flattered was she deeply.

"You may, Master Wizard", she replied with grace.

"Now, all of you, look at me in the face,"

Saruman said with bulging eyes. "I want you to listen

To my soft and swift and sweet voice. My eyes glisten,

Imagine they are two shimmering lakes,

Follow my lips, don't worry, they are not snakes!

Look at my grand nose, it is a solid mountain,

My long white hair are a snow coat without stain."

Saruman paused to scrutinise his oratory's faces.

All the members of the company bore traces

Of a profound spiritual remoteness.

The wizard smiled at that quietness.

"My voice is the most delicious beverage,

that removes all the problems of old age.

My dear cattle, do you still follow me?"

A mess of approving "mmm" came immediately.

"I am a gentle man, no harm have I ever done,

Betrayals, assassinations or tortures did I commit none."

Saruman, at that statement that was easily accepted,

Laughed heartily. "A great pureness was I granted,

When I was a young man, to spread peace and love

Over the green lands of Middle Earth, a dove

Would be my nearest companion, gentle and wise.

Many times did I see the wonderful Sun rise,

Over the meadows and hills, or

Destroying the shadows of Mordor..."

As if stung by a furious bumblebee,

Boromir jumped on his feet and said without glee:

"One does not simply walk into Mordor!

It is a place swarming with stinky Or..."

"Shut up, you silly man!" Saruman cried. "Don't interrupt..."

"A place ruled by a gnarled wizard who went bankrupt

With his lord and master the nasty evil Sauron,

Who is nothing more than a gummy eye on..."

"Will you shut your mouth, you liar!"

Saruman was as infuriated as fire,

He clenched his fists and seemed ready to implode.

"That servile wizard is even more pathetic than a toad!"

Boromir went on. "He's nothing more than a decrepit..."

Saruman couldn't bear more of those words: "Stop it!"

And, with his stick, he struck Boromir on the head.

The poor man fell headlong on the floor, nearly dead.

The rest of the company barely took care of the scene.

Saruman, less furious, coughed his throat clean.

He was pleased because his audience was still mesmerised.

"Now lads your gold and silver hiding places will be memorised

By my care. Do not fear me, all I want is for your own good.

What is the use of all your precious money? For food?"

The wizard's eyes shone with cupidity.

"No, the Host is generous, he won't let you hungry.

So give me your confidence, and I will cherish your treasures!

I will use them for the inhabitants' pleasures..."

At those words, Boromir painfully regained consciousness.

"Mordor is a place of death, a land of horribleness...

One does not simply walk into Mordor, one trembles,

One prays all the gods so that we don't turn into crumbles,

One thinks about the will we didn't write,

One thinks about the wonders of nature, the snow white,

The warm Sun, the gentle breeze, the green grass,

The foggy dew, the unravelled clouds, the beloved lass,

All those treasures we left behind and found commonplace;

Never will we be able to find again those marvels of grace.

Ah, I miss the song of the lark in the sycamore tree,

I long for the twinkling river where plays the fairy!

I wish I were a grain of sand, blown by the warm wind,

Carried o'er the hills and far away, through the mist and rain,

Nevermore will the silly wars be my bane..."

With a "ouch", he fell on the floor anew.

Saruman had struck him as if he was a personified flu.

"Will you let me speak, young insolent!"

He growled. "I won't wait 'til the crescent!"

The grumpy wizard raved at Boromir for a while.

Then he rolled up his sleeves and, with a sly smile:

"Give me your money, you fat-bellied Host!

And you too stupid stinky elves, I'll have it at any cost!

And you, nasty little hair-footed hobbits! And you ridiculous dwarf!"

I will lead you to the end of a wharf,

And push you into the cold and dull waters,

For I enjoy above all cruelties slaughters!"

Suddenly, Saruman stopped. His blood ran cold.

He had just realised he had been far too bold.

He had made a mistake. A terrible, stupid, dangerous mistake.

He suddenly saw himself tied to a stake,

Trying to catch flies with his mouth for a long time.

He dared looking at his audience. It was simply sublime:

There was a wide range of bulging-eyed gaping guests.

Shocked by what they had just heard, they gathered heavy chests,

Aiming at smashing in that old honey-tongued wizard.

If their eyes were thunderbolts, Saruman would have been hit hard.

"You vile swindler! Old crook! I will have you eat your beard!"

Shouted the fair Lady Galadriel. "I will be your idol revered!

You will love me and waste away! You will desire my beauty,

You will long for getting a look of my generous person, any..."

"STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"

Gandalf yelled. "Of a lonely mountain I will climb to the top,

If that irritating mess you go on! I want you to be quiet!

And you, old fool, don't rip us off, or Death by you will be met!"

Saruman gasped and turned paler than an elf's tooth.

He bent his head with shame and remained silent.

Gandalf grumbled:"We'd rather the help of a storyteller rent!"


	6. Grima's Dreams

_Disclaimer : Here is a new chapter of the Mount Doom Tales. I don't know if it's a convincing part, well... just read it and REVIEW, pleaaaaaase ; )The content of Grima's dream is the property of Mrs Rowling._

**Grima's Dreams**

"Should I let them there?" Gandalf wondered aloud.

"Or will I have them telling their nonsense be allowed?

The worst I fear with such a company.

Will the next tale be once more uncanny?"

As the wise wizard unravelled his head content,

Grima Wormtongue raised a yellowish hand.

Although he was still shocked by his recent aggression,

He promised the audience not to tell digression.

"Well, what will be the subject of your tale, Wormtongue?"

Gandalf asked quite abruptly, in a voice strong.

"Erm..."the greasy man gargled. "Dreams and torment."

A tide of sceptical eyebrows raised in a same movement.

The fair Galadriel, however, exclaimed with surprise.

"What an interesting topic to rise!"

Grima, quite afraid, was reassured by her eyes:

It seemed like they were two moving skies,

Where glittering stars danced dizzily.

The pathetic-looking man breathed deeply:

"Do you know what is real and what is not?

Who can claim he's able to untie the knot?

People think we are in real life, but is it true?

Did physicians proved it was such? Did I? Did you?

Who can say what we dream is not real?

Who can tell the borderline between what we feel,

And what we do? Aren't dreams a mystery?

When we dream, don't we taste the sweetness of a strawberry?

Can we tell what is veracity from what is fable?

Aren't dreams fascinating? So close but so inaccessible?"

Grima paused. The company began to drink his every word.

As for Galadriel, she was in Grima's verbal boat aboard.

"Now I will tell you about my theory.

My name is Grima Wormtongue, and, it is no mystery,

I was the evil adviser of King Theoden.

My weapon was not a sword or a pen,

Nor an army, no, all my strength was in my oral skill.

What I do best is spreading evil.

But apart from being a puppet in Saruman's gnarled hands,

I am also a free thinker that escapes in other realms.

I spend my nights dreaming of things strange,

Still I feel that in my memories they cover a wide range.

At night, when the stars are the mistresses of the world,

When the vivid waters of the vales have too much swirled,

And when the swift and silent owls conquer the sombre skies,

Then my dull brain starts creating wonders and tries,

With its utmost care, to take me away from Middle Earth.

My fantastic brain to ecstatic thoughts gives birth!

Almost every night, after I leave the decrepit once-white-wizard,

My soul revives at last! No more bleary lizard

To tear open in order to read a depressing future in,

No more heavy corpses to throw in the dustbin,

No more crawling wastes to sweep away,

No more indecent orders to obey..."

Grima stopped. People were staring intently at him.

"Erm...Well ,wandering as usual... Don't scream!

I will not describe ugly things. Listen to my tale.

In many ways it can reach the top of the marvel's scale.

In my dreams, I see obscure corridors lit by blazing torches,

When I walk along the passage, my hair scorches,

And sizzles with joy."

Saruman spat: "That's my boy!"

But Grima ignored him royally and went on.

"Against my pitiful awaken life I won,

Since the sacred night when the first dream appeared.

I guessed I found myself in a castle weird,

For I caught sight of poltergeists and children.

However, no swarming worms nor grumbling men.

Just...wizards." He gasped, realising what he had just said.

Slightly annoyed, he turned towards Gandalf.

"True wizards, like our friend Gandalf, not some crumbling half!"

He said that with an insistent look on his master.

Saruman frowned and clenched his fists of alabaster.

"Will you stop this, you lumpy newt! Or..."

Cut to the quick, Grima growled: "Mordor,

Lothlorien, Gondor, Minas Tirith or even the noisy Shire,

Of the slightest crop, tree, wall, street you'll have never.

All your life you tried to become a great wizard,

However your whole career was nothing else but a hazard.

To pretend you were mighty, you repressed me,

With your filthy little words and insane glee!

But now your creature broke free from his chains,

And leads a parallel life and that's a great chance!"

His eyes all glistening, Grima went on feverishly:

"In my dreams I work in a castle huge oddly,

With moving staircases, talking paintings,

Wizard-apprentices, and ghostly greetings.

When I see my reflection into a mirror,

I am beautiful, there's no error.

To yellowish bubos I am no more akin,

For instead I have a smooth and pale skin.

My hair are of the same greasy nature,

But they fit my well-proportioned stature,

Which bears my long flowing black robe.

Teaching how to make decoctions is my job.

Talkative arrogant little adolescents are my pupils,

But I scoff at them with a biting coldness and no scruples.

My presence is dreaded and I like it,

For I do not have my domination to admit."

Grima went silent, he had fallen into deep thoughts,

And from Saruman himself came no assaults.

"Erm", Pippin asked, "is the message conveyed is protection?"

Neither Grima nor the audience had the slightest reaction.

"I mean, since you live a miserable life in Middle Earth,

You find some joy in your dreams, it's like a merry hearth,

The flames of which warm your cold dried heart.

You see, when to a game you take part,

You feel good, because you're involved..."

Saruman said dryly: "Is your theory evolved,

Or are you simply trying to defend that hound?

To my nasty influence he is bound,

Whether you like it or not.

I am the master here, believe it, you silly lot!"

Gandalf sprang to his feet, hot as charcoal:

"Merry company, pray hear my call,

To put an end to that senile gibberish of Saruman,

Let's see if an interesting topic discuss he can.


	7. The Psychotic Hobbit's Tale

_Disclaimer : the characters belong to J.R.R Tolkien, the framework to Geoffrey Chaucer. I hope it's not too confusing. Good reading. Reviews, please ! Héhé, spéciale dédicace pour Nathalie en souvenir des Utopiales ._

**The Psychotic Hobbit's Tale**

Saruman cast a sharp glance at his fellow wizard:

"I will not lose my time looking your face haggard,

While you listen to those stupid talks,

That make you as silly as your hawks!"

The wizard had snarled his discourse to Gandalf's nose,

But the latter in great wise to stay calm he chose.

"So, dear Saruman, I will no more importunate thee,

Pray let some member of the company

A tale of his, or her taste, tell.

Ladies and gents who in silence dwell,

Who among you wants to begin?"

"Can I? Can I?" cried an ecstatic Pippin,

His elvish cloak wrapped around his head.

"Don't you know the Shire I fled?

Oh, you may say I am a fool,

But there I was restrained and people were cruel."

To that statement, his greatest friend Merry reacted:

"What did you say? Weren't you overprotected?

Weren't you allowed to tread upon Old Proudfeet's toes?

Weren't you allowed to loot sweet Rosie's tomatoes?

Do you regret having damaged Sam's crops?

Do you regret having ransacked the villagers' shops?

Have you ever wondered why you were so tolerated?

Have you ever tried to have your behaviour prospected?"

Pippin offered the image of a mortified Hobbit,

Whom a fellow hunter had stolen his stuffed rabbit.

With bulging eyes and gasping breath,

The halfling seemed ready to meet his death.

But, recovering his spirits, he shouted:

"Will you shut up, you stinky curled-haired mole?

What are you talking about? And you all..."

Pippin, his hand designating the gathering,

Was stopped in his movement by a ringing.

"Won't you tell us your bloody story?"

Snarled the fierce-looking Samwise Gamgee.

Merry echoed: "I'm fed up with your pseudo-offences!

You can't do anything except talking to pixies,

Scraping wild-boar's bellies and whispering to the moon!

If you go on this way you'll turn an elf soon,

We true Hobbits expect from you more dignity!

Instead of whining, reach posterity!

Why don't you simply eat, drink and laugh?

It is no need licking _athelas_ and cough!"

Merry paused. His fellow was foaming with rage.

"Do you think yourself on stage,

Performing some ill-played drama?

I've always said you were too spoilt by your mamma.

Stop spitting your failed incisive cues,

And let me expose my own views."

Pippin observed closely the audience,

And in a mysterious tone of voice,

He said, putting his cloak around his shoulders:

"I'm a bat! A proud green bat living over boulders!"

The merry company uttered a common "Whoaaat?"

Pippin insisted eagerly: "Yes, I'm a green bat,

That's why I fled the Shire! No one understood

How does it feel to be different, wearing a hood,

So that the crude sunlight does not hurt your eyes,

So that your brain is kept safe from curious flies!

In the Shire, people treated me like a crank,

Though I claimed I was a natural swank!

Oh, no, don't be mistaken by those words,

I'm not saying I love boasting like birds,

Only I am proud of my cavernous roots!

My brothers bats don't have to wear boots,

-well err, neither need Hobbits I know-

They can fly in the sky high or on the ground low,

They don't have to find ideas of presents

For some silly neighbour who your presence resents,

And, what I enjoy most, they can see at night!

For my fellows if a wandering bee is in sight,

Then it'd better pray before meeting a bat's gut.

Oh, to be honest I'd like to live in a hut.

Well, it's not precisely bat-like,

But it is an experience I wouldn't dislike.

Thinking about it, I wonder if I am not..."

"Aaaaaah! Stop it, Pippin!" shouted Merry. "Or change your spot!

You are the most exhausting person I have to endure!

If only you could be more mature!"

Pippin, deeply vexed, spread his green wings,

And, flapping frantically, left with some shrill singings.

"Tss, go away, ungrateful false friend!

With your kind I no longer want to blend!"


	8. The Lay of the Wicked Wild Walkyrie

_Disclaimer : it's Galadriel's turn to tell her tale. A bit of Scandinavian mythology? Please R&R : )_

**The Lay of the Wicked Wild Walkyrie**

After the departure of the green bat,

Only one person reacted to that:

Galadriel, her golden hair flowing 'round her,

Said softly: "To those words I cannot find any lure.

Can't people simply tell a story?

Is it so much of a misery?

Why so much complications?

Is it just a problem of notions?

Let me entertain you with a wonder of words,

That is more efficient than swords.

With infinite grace, the lady climbed on the table,

And with a peaceful smile began her fable.

"Fellows of Middle-Earth, here is my contribution

To that brilliant but messy competition.

I would like to introduce that audience jolly

To the Lay of the Wicked Wild Walkyrie...:

_With hair like gold she had been blessed,_

_Streaming buttercups her head dressed._

_Great and widespread was her fame,_

_Gudrun Odinstochter her name._

_Pale as a swan's downy plumage,_

_That mortal men's brain would damage,_

_For her skin was so pure and soft,_

_It seemed as pleasing as a croft._

_Her lips were two salmon slices,_

_That were worth all sweet devices._

_Generously was her body shaped,_

_With a bulging chest and thin hips,_

_That would Venus's lure eclipse._

_In caribou's skin was she wrapped,_

_For imprudent men to be trapped._

_Her sweet smile she used as honey,_

_To ensnare men as would money._

_Fragile she looked like but good God!_

_No worst Walkyrie could be found_

_On Yggdrasil tree or around._

_In dragon's blood was she baptised,_

_So that warriors be terrorised._

_Picking up warriors who did fall_

_On wet battlefields was her role._

_One day Gudrun and her sisters_

_Were called to clean great disasters._

_A terrible fight it had been,_

_Where blood in pond was drippin'_

_Greedy ravens grew up on corpses,_

_Growling dogs dug storing graves,_

_While the whining worm would wander_

_Among the lethal wounds that swarmed_

_With foul-smelling pus that warmed._

_At their father Odin's loud call,_

_The Walkyries did cry and fall._

_They ran to the trespassed fighters,_

_Proud virgins who feared not writers_

_With their sharp quills and dry parchments,_

_Stiff air and sad accoutrements,_

_Looking for some creepy story_

_Suitable for the kind gentry._

_But Gudrun came upon a man,_

_Who laid dying among his clan._

_Great was his fame, big his muscles,_

_His life died after his tussles._

_Gudrun and the warrior's eyes met,_

_And nothing would be a diet_

_Better than that pure lively ode,_

_Better than that of love that flowed_

_From the virgin's obedient heart._

_She refused to see him depart_

_For the Walhalla and its joys,_

_Using swords like children with toys._

_Odin her divine father frowned,_

_At that rebellion he turned brown._

_To his daring daughter he thus said:_

_"My blood has never been so red_

_Since that Loki stole my rollers_

_While I was asleep in flowers,_

_That morning when I met Freya._

_To my heart she was my fella'_

_It was a shock to see such beauty_

_In such a place of vanity,_

_Full of mollusc-brained goddesses,_

_Nasty elves in proud odysseys_

_Of hypothetical wonders_

_Hidden in the mind of hunters."_

_Gudrun, who was deeply bored, yawned._

_"Enough mass children you have spawned,_

_Please, Dad, spare me your debauched youth."_

_Odin looked vexed, and spoke the truth:_

_"Err, well, I just wanted to say_

_That a Walkyrie's life is no a play._

_You're no simple human on stage,_

_Foolish seduction's not your age,_

_Nor is it your rank, proud virgin._

_Don't mingle with men!" said Odin._

_Then Gudrun burst into laughter._

_Her sisters had a brisk shiver._

_"Father, can't you leave me alone?_

_Days of submission're dead and gone._

_Women are no more men's servants,_

_We won't be subjected as ants_

_To boring work and limp routine._

_To male authority we sin,_

_But to modern world we're just free._

_In free will and choice we find glee,_

_For from hardy wood we are made,_

_So to late strength adieu we bade._

_I am no battlefield vulture,_

_Who slain bodies holds in culture._

_I am no doll dressed in leather,_

_Who must run hither and thither,_

_With but little self-reflection._

_I don't live in your detention,_

_I don't want to see daily dead,_

_Nor weak thieves stealing some cut head._

_That dying man that I have met,_

_No such wonder exist I bet_

_Either in Midgard or Asgard,_

_Hel or any realm that you guard._

_So don't bother me with rubbish,_

_And accept my life not greyish._

_My sisters who are prisoners_

_Can't you break free from your maker's_

_Divine authority? Oh damn it!"_

_Said Gudrun with a brisk shrugging._

_"I'm not going to convince you,_

_Knowing your wooden-heads and so._

_For me no need to go so low._

_I'd better try to teach knittin'_

_To a too well-to-do goblin."_

_Thus saying, Gudrun departed._

_In her back her father shouted:_

_"If you leave with that mortal man,_

_From my sacred realm you I ban."_

_With a grin, her daughter answered:_

_"Well, dear father, upon my word_

_I'll say you're very generous."_

_And, bending to carry her love,_

_The sly Walkyrie as a dove,_

_Melted into the sleeping skies._

_Odin the Great God not-so-wise,_

_Bit his lip and started to whine._

_"Worshippers, I want a new shrine_

_To be built in my sweet glory,_

_Or I'll soon be in a fury."_

Galadriel shook her fair head.

"Why have you to the tavern fled?

Don't you agree the female cause?

My existence has been a pause,

With a few breaks to distract me

From the elvish monotony.

I have a mule of a husband,

Who spends his time writing poetry,

Licking dew from leaves and pottery.

Oh I love him fondly but, well,

His heart within the stars does dwell.

Our son Elrond's of the same stuff,

Tender his mind, his body tough.

But his hobby lies in nature.

For him life is the best culture:

Take a worm, a bough or a trout,

He will deal with them without doubt.

Yet he gave birth to a real goose.

My grand-daughter Arwen is loose

Like her dark hair, windy her mind.

Eternal life she left behind:

I must admit she surprised me,

And my Gudrun is based on her.

Her fond lover is a great sir,

And I'd be glad to marry them,

Although his life's as brief as fame.

For mortal he is, and fragile.

I will respect him for a while."

Seeing that none listened to her,

That even Arwen's look was blur,

Galadriel spat on the floor.

So she scowled and became sullen.


	9. The Tale of the Wellthinking Dwarf

_Disclaimer: new chapter inspired from Terry Prtachett's Discworld's dwarves. Hope you'll enjoy ! R&R, please !_

**The Tale of the Well-thinking Dwarf**

In the tavern the company would not stay,

For the great sorceress Galadriel there lay,

Revengeful as ever, angered at the company's flight.

Though they were not in a sad plight,

For the Lady was too proud to attack.

So Gimli proposed to follow a track,

Through the surrounding dark and deep wood,

Maybe to find some good-hearted food,

But above all to listen to his tale.

The Master Dwarf, in hand a glass of ale,

His beard trickling with the golden beverage,

Was not mean with words and made a carnage.

"Did I ever tell you about our mines?

Splendid, dark, moistened, huge mines?

How lovely are their walls,

More glittering than elvish waterfalls!

When we look up it's like an inverted diamond well,

But we do it rarely for we are not made well:

Our necks are short and our heads heavy,

And we dwarves prefer to stand the gravity.

Unlike our fellows elves, we don't value air,

And all those things that to them are fair.

But the greatest treasure of my people is better:

We, dwarves from the sombre mines, and other

( I'm talking about those foul-smelling Orcs ),

Worship the most beautiful thing from Middle Earth,

A thing that makes us enjoy our underground birth,

A thing that can move peoples and passions,

A thing that had passed through all fashions,

A thing that would move the noblest rock,

A thing that is far more valuable than chalk,

A thing..."

"Will you tell us what it is about, short-legs ?"

Legolas said, unaware of walking on eggs.

"Who are you talking to, pointy ears?"

Sharply replied the Master Dwarf, his eyes two spears.

"Does somebody else around eat stones in scones?"

Said Legolas, with the most perfidious of his tones.

Gimli, his beard turning fiery red, brandished his axe,

Legolas would have melted under his glare, had he been in wax.

Witnesses could have sworn smoke came out from his face red:

"DWARVES DO NOT EAT STONES, IT'S BREAD!"

"Bread?" retorted the elf. "Do bread normally file teeth down?

To me bread is something eatable made of flour white or brown.

Is it usual for the eater to wish he had eaten burning coal,

Rather than that mixture of ash, gravel and droppings from an ill mole?"

Gimli could not bear the insult and, swearing, he swaggered:

Never had a so small creature be seen so angered.

Although with his raised arms he could hardly reach Legolas'chin,

His polished cutting axe proved itself quite convincin'

And the gracious elf shuddered and winced.

"Did you taste dwarvish cooking, lad?" Gimli asked,

His tone of voice as engaging as a badger's kiss.

Legolas blushed violently and made a guilty hiss.

Gimli lowered his axe and shook his big helmeted head,

Disapproval could be seen through his bushy hairs all red.

He took a slow and solemn voice, smiling calmly:

"Lad, don't you know it is nasty to judge hastily?

When you have not the thing by yourself seen,

It is mere weakness to make your opinion so keen.

I confess I am quite perplex myself about elves.

I try to avoid thinking of them like pretty shelves,

Useful to the world but in the background,

Smooth and predictable as an oak board.

Hold your protest, my friend!" Gimli said.

"For my narrow-mindedness I have paid,

For I can see now that your are a living entity,

As skilful as me in your own crafts and identity.

You breath like me, love things like me,

Talk like me, walk...erm...almost walk like me.

The only difference I see is your physical appearance,

Your high bearing, fair hair and defectiveness clearance.

But both live for an ideal: you seek beauty in nature,

And I do make of gold digging an advanced culture."

Legolas, on the verge of tears, put his hand on his heart,

And his oratory practice he tried to raise in art:

"My friend, my captain, my model, my genius!

Do you think stubborn elves and dwarves could understand us?

Hand in hand we could unite our peoples, join the war,

Help the Middle Earth tribes to trade onions in jar,

Fight for freedom, for cabbages and carrots to grow,

For the sun to shine on the Great Milky Cow,

For streams to water the mossy woods and plains,

For foxes and squirrels to develop their brains."

Arm in arm, Gimli and Legolas erased their prejudices,

Abandoning the company, they talked about injustices.

Bilbo, who stood on a fallen trunk, sighed with relief:

"My dear fellows, we avoided a great deal of grief.

Luckily we escaped the dwarf bread sampling

And a brain-destroying repertory of gold singing!"


End file.
